


weakness

by LtTanyaBoone



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 00:38:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6064171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LtTanyaBoone/pseuds/LtTanyaBoone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>inspired by a tumblr post about Lexa wanting to break and cry but denying herself to</p>
            </blockquote>





	weakness

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr post made by @kiriyeon](http://kiriyeon.tumblr.com/post/139554078128/do-you-ever-wonder-if-lexa-cries-sitting-on-her):  
>  Do you ever wonder if Lexa cries?  
> Sitting on her bed at night, all alone, with her legs drawn to her chest and arms wrapped around them. And she just wants to break, wants someone to hold her, to see her for what she really is - a young woman with way too many scars on her heart. She just wants to cry and yet this simple request is denied by none other than herself. “I must be strong. I must hide my pain. I must never let my feelings show.” - she mutters to herself while she recognizes the salty taste on her lips.

She’s always quiet. There is never any telling that something is going on in Heda’s bedchamber from the outside. She has a habit of dismissing the guards from her room every once in a while, for whatever reason. He always assumed that it was easier for her to think without the feeling of people hovering, of watching her. Even Heda needs to be able to let her guard down every once in a while.

He remembers when he walked into her room one night, rambling on about a message a rider had just relayed. She’d turned away when he’d walked in and hidden her face, but he had heard the sniffle and paused mid-sentence. Her hands had gone up to her face and when she’d turned to face him, there had been tearmarks on her face. Her voice had been strained, but she’d ignored his question if something was wrong, focusing instead on why he had entered her chamber in the middle of the night.

After that, he paid closer attention to her. Noticed when she clenched her jaw and closed her eyes for a second too long. He stood next to her throne, watching Heda out of the corner of his eyes. Watched as she rested her head in her hand in-between subjects pleading for something or other. Watched as she stood on her balcony, gazing in the distance, eyes unfocused.

She never speaks her dead lover’s name. He does not, either. Yet he thinks he knows why she’d been crying all those nights ago. He knows grief, knows it well.

He finds reasons to check on her every once in a while. When he feels like she’s had a particularly taxing day. Invites himself to her bedchamber under the guise of discussing politics, going over some minor detail of what happened during the day. Hopes that not being alone may help her. Hopes that, in time, she may trust him and confide in him.

“Titus,” the concerned voice of a guard makes him look up. The young man looks rather uncomfortable, standing there in his door as he shifts uneasily. He watches him and motions for him to draw near.

“Do you need something?” he asks, motioning to a chair. The youth shakes his head and swallows.

“Heda, she… dismissed us,” he informs him, looking over his shoulder to make sure they are alone.

“She is free to do so,” Titus reminds the man, frowning.

“I think she, I thought I saw… tears. In her eyes. Before she told us to leave her alone for the night.”

He leans back in his chair with a sigh and gives a nod.

“Thank you. Go rest, now,” he dismisses the guard. The man looks confused before he straightens and nods, leaving the room. He makes a mental note to make sure the youth understands that what he thinks he saw needs to be kept quiet before he rises, making his way down the corridors to Heda’s bedchamber.

He tells the guards to close the door immediately when he enters and sees her. She’s sitting on her bed, legs down up with her bare feet resting on the furs. Her arms are wrapped around them tightly, her head resting on her knees, face hidden from view. Yet he can see her shoulders shake violently, hears rattled breath escaping her in her effort to keep quiet.

Slowly, he draws closer, hesitating before he sinks down onto the bed next to her.

He used to have a daughter. A lovely little girl with a beautiful smile and fiery spirit. The pox claimed her when she was still too young to hold up a sword. He remembers holding her as she cried after skinning her knee, remembers drying salty tears and making her laugh again. She was little, her pain was physical. It had been easy to distract her.

“Leksa,” he mutters and reaches out, carefully brushing her hair behind her ear. She flinches at the touch, a strangled sob escaping her.

He’s always wondered what happens to the parents of the young Nightbloods. If they ever forget about their children. Or if they spend their days wondering what happens to them. He doesn’t know if Heda’s parents are still alive now. Even if they are, they have no idea what happened to their daughter. The children receive new names when they are separated from their parents, to ensure that their origins cannot be traced back. That the Heda of the Twelve Clans cannot be blackmailed by someone threatening their blood family.

He’s never considered what it might do to the children. They are all so little when they come here to train. So far away from their families and villages, surrounded by strangers. Forced to grow up sooner than even their friends, without parents to lean on.

“I miss her,” she whispers, her voice husky. When she looks up, there are tears on her face. This time, she makes no attempt to hide them from him. So he reaches out and does what he did for his own daughter, carefully wipes one away with the pad of his thumb.

“She was, special,” he allows. And she truly had been, the one person to manage to draw a laugh from the Nightblood that went on to become Heda. He did not like how blatant they were about their affection for each other, warned her even to not be as obvious about her infatuation or it might one day be used against her. He’d never have imagined something so horrible as to what had happened to poor Costia.

She makes a face, bursting into fresh tears and he reaches out to pull her into his arms before he even fully knows what he is doing. She’s sobbing loudly now, unable to contain her grief and he lets her cry against his chest. Feels her tears soak into his garments, feels her tremble under his hand as he strokes her back and makes shushing noises, telling her it will be okay.

During the morning meeting, she looks tired. There are dark circles under her eyes. He left her chamber only after she’d cried herself to sleep. He’d been tempted to stay, or at least check on her in the morning, to make sure she would be up for today’s business. But he’d forced himself to stay away. She was Heda. If she needed something, she would let him know.

“Titus,” she calls him back when he is about to leave the room with the others. She beckons him onto her balcony, out of the earshot of the guards.

“I wish to, apologize,” she tells him, not meeting his gaze, instead looking out over Polis. “I was, weak, to allow myself such a display.”

He watches her, searches her face. Sees her jaw working and inclines his head.

“Yes, Heda.”

“I trust that this will stay between us?” she turns to him, fixing him with her piercing eyes. He nods again and she exhales slowly before she turns away to watch over the city again.

“That would be all.”

He briefly watches her before he inclines his head and withdraws. He isn’t entirely sure, but he could almost swear he hears her whisper a thank you.


End file.
